


Lightning and Sparks

by bella_my_clarke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Artist Clarke Griffin, Cuddling, F/M, Food Fight, Kissing, Lightning storm, Platonically Married, TV Marathon, bellamy blake is smooth in goodbyes, bellarke hug, cheek kiss, clarke griffin is not, nerdy bellamy blake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 20:08:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7120636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bella_my_clarke/pseuds/bella_my_clarke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy shows up at Clarke's door, seeking refuge from his worst fear--lightning storms. What starts as a one-time thing to keep his fears at bay begins to grow, and both people have to wonder if it's really a storm that's bringing them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lightning and Sparks

Clarke was mixing paints, struggling to find the color she was looking for, when the doorbell rang. Sighing, she dropped her brush and went to the door, opening it just enough for her to stick her head out. To her surprise, it was Bellamy Blake, one of her newer neighbors in the apartment building. “Oh, um, hi, Bellamy,” she said, looking him and up and down in confusion as to why he was here.

“Hi, Clarke,” he replied. His voice was tight, and she realized he looked frightened.

She opened the door more, putting her body comfortably between the door and the frame, and said with a touch of concern, “Is something wrong?”

He averted his eyes, embarrassed. “It’s the...the lightning.”

Lightning? Clarke hadn’t even known it was raining. But sure enough, she could now detect the constant pitter-patter outside. She must’ve been too wrapped up in painting to notice.

A clap of thunder sounded and Bellamy flinched. “Are you...does it scare you?” she asked, realizing the cause of his discomfort. “The storm?”

He shuffled his feet. “I know it sounds stupid....” Then he swallowed, looked up. “Could I come inside?”

Clarke blinked. “What?” Sure, she liked Bellamy, and he was very easy on the eyes, but they hadn’t spoken very often since he’d moved in a little while ago, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be with Bellamy in her apartment...alone.

“I’m sorry, that was too forward,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m just used to my sister Octavia being here when there’s a storm, but she’s at dinner with her boyfriend Lincoln, and I remembered you were so nice to me, and I thought.... Sorry, it was stupid, I shouldn’t have wasted your time.”

“No, no, you’re fine,” Clarke said, suddenly touched at his description of her. She felt herself rethinking the decision to send him away, tallying up the pros and cons in her head, and finally stepped back, opening the door wide. “Come in, I don’t see why you can’t hang out for a little while.”

Bellamy darted in like a puppy – he did have puppy eyes, Clarke thought absently – and Clarke immediately felt overly conscious of her painted-on clothes and messy hair, which was so tangled it was basically all dreadlocks. There was no way she was changing with Bellamy inside, though, so she just shut the door and took a few steps towards Bellamy.

An awkward silence ensued, broken only by Bellamy half-jumping at a flash of lightning. At this point, they both seemed to realize how awkward this would be. They didn’t even know if they had common interests to talk about. As Clarke wondered if she should ask what Bellamy liked to do, he suddenly said, “Did you paint that?”

She looked up and saw the painting on its easel on the opposite side of the room, half-finished and in need of a lot of help. “Oh. Yeah, it’s just a project I’m working on.”

He walked right up to it, examining it with keen interest considering it was a work in progress. “It’s incredible,” he breathed, then inclined his head to her. “I didn’t know you did art.”

She stepped up beside him. “Wouldn’t have expected you to; it’s only been a few months since you moved in. We haven’t gotten to know each other very well yet.”

“Shame,” he said, and though she was looking at her painting, Clarke could tell Bellamy’s eyes were on her. She glanced up quickly and saw his eyes were soft.

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat, “what do you want to do while you’re waiting for the storm to pass?”

“I don’t know. What sounds fun to you?”

“What I’d really like to do is paint, but all you’d get to do is watch me, and sitting for hours doing that isn’t likely to be any fun,” she said, shrugging. It was true; he’d get completely forgotten when she started painting. Everything did—eating, sleeping, showering, work. The moment she picked up a brush, he would cease to exist in her thoughts.

Well, probably. As long as he sat down before she started, rather than standing so close.

“I don’t know if I’d mind that much,” Bellamy admitted. “I’m terrible at art, but watching people who are really good at it is fascinating. They just flick their wrist and suddenly there’s this gorgeous line on the paper. Incredible. _However,_ seeing as you’d probably get uncomfortable with me watching you for several hours straight, doing something else might be a better idea.”

They brainstormed aloud, but no ideas seemed to stick. They couldn’t do anything outside, and her apartment wasn’t particularly big—it had just a kitchen, two miniscule bedrooms (she had to use both for all her stuff), a bathroom, and a living area. This dropped the options significantly. They also couldn’t do easy activities like board games because Clarke didn’t have any, and the storm had temporarily messed with the television, so that was out.

When Bellamy finally suggested that maybe watching Clarke paint was their only option, though, she got an idea. “Why don’t you do some painting?”

Bellamy frowned. “Me? Don’t you remember me saying I’m terrible at art?”

His incredulous expression made Clarke smile. “That’s the point. Maybe I can remedy your biological flaw.”

Laughing shortly, Bellamy nodded and smiled. “Okay, sure, Clarke. That sounds fine.”

Bellamy Blake looked very handsome when he smiled, Clarke decided. His whole face glowed when he did, and his eyes gained a softness that made her feel warm.

“Clarke?” Bellamy said, and Clarke knew she had looked too long. Cheeks reddening, she averted her eyes and went to find some art supplies. He, of course, trailed her like a puppy – man, he’d grow a tail soon if he kept this up – so she couldn’t get the blush to leave and finally just set the feeling aside. She pulled out the cheapest art paper she had (which was still sort of expensive, but she wasn’t about to tell Bellamy in case he tried to back out) and some old brushes.

“All right, Bellamy,” she said, bringing the supplies to her kitchen table and grabbing some of her paint as she went. “Time to make an artist out of you.”

They worked at it for who knows how long, and though Bellamy was clearly still nervous about the storm, he seemed more able to put it aside the longer they went. He _was,_ however, quite terrible at painting; he lacked the elegance and careful hand of an artist. She tried demonstrating and describing, but he was just too clumsy with a brush. At one point she even tried to put her hand atop his and guide it, but it just seemed to distract him more. It didn’t do wonders for her concentration, either, so she finally decided to call it quits.

The two looked out the window in the living room together, shoulders brushing as they fought for a good view in the small opening. Through the darkness of the night they could tell that thunder and lightning still took turns screaming across the sky as the rain came down, which meant they needed a new activity.

“Still sure you don’t want me to watch you paint?” Bellamy asked jokingly, bumping her shoulder with his arm. She rolled her eyes, but the smile spreading across her features showed her mood well enough.

“I’m sure,” she said, after a moment. “Why don’t we watch something?”

He raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “TV’s busted, remember? You know, because of the storm outside...the really bad one...the one I came here about....”

“I know that,” Clarke said huffily, though she _had_ sort of forgotten over the past while. “I was thinking we could use my laptop, see if wi-fi’s still working. Maybe watch a show.”

“Oh. Okay then—as long as you have good taste in TV shows. And yummy food.”

Fortunately, she did have food Bellamy found yummy – she was a huge sweet tooth, which fit perfectly with Mr. Bellamy Diabetes Blake – so they decided to mash a ton of junk food together into a strange, absurdly unhealthy concoction. As Clarke was dumping chocolate chips into their bowl of assorted candy, however, she felt something lightly hit her forehead. Confused, she turned, and saw Bellamy with a handful of marshmallows and an obnoxiously adorable smirk on his face.

She resisted the urge to reciprocate the grin and forced herself to frown with her eyes narrowed. “What was that for?”

“I get the feeling you need to loosen up a bit,” he smirked, shrugging and throwing another marshmallow, which hit her straight in the nose.

“I do not need to loosen up,” she argued. “And you’re wasting marshmallows.”

He bowed mockingly, his eyes raised to hers playfully. “As you wish, your Highness.”

“I’m no royalty, Bellamy,” she laughed, beckoning him up. “Although I could see you as a jester. Maybe a servant.”

“Whatever, Princess,” he said, bumping her shoulder with his own and popping one of the marshmallows in his mouth. “I’d have more fun than you as a jester.” Or at least that’s what she guessed he said; he still had the sticky, gooey mess in his mouth when he tried to speak.

“You’re disgusting,” she snorted, feigning disgust with a scrunched-up face. “Chew, you uncivilized man.”

“I _am_ chewing, Princess,” he claimed, grinning widely with remains of marshmallow still visible.

She shoved him hard and muttered under her breath, but pretty soon she was catching marshmallows instead of dropping them, and felt something shift ever so slightly into place.

Finally, after a lot more throwing of marshmallows and a scoop of ice cream nearly put down Bellamy’s shirt, they set themselves up in the second bedroom on the floor (there wasn’t a bed since Clarke didn’t have a use for another one). Since the carpet was uncomfortable, they pillowed it with blankets and set pillows against the wall, with the bowl of mismatched junk sitting on the right.

The laptop was put on their legs, and since it was small it forced them to sit rather close together, close enough that they had to straighten out their legs; their shoulders, hips, and thighs brushed each other.

Well, okay, Clarke did have to admit maybe they didn’t have to sit _that_ close, but they did anyway. Neither person mentioned it, and Clarke felt acutely aware of the fact as they looked through Netflix for something decent to watch. “Let’s see what I’ve watched recently,” she said, scrolling through the tab, but she wasn’t able to pay much attention to the screen. In fact, she had gone on total autopilot until Bellamy let out a tiny gasp and tapped her hand excitedly. _That_ certainly got her attention.

“What, Bellamy?” she asked.

He pointed at the screen, his finger hovering over one of her favorite TV shows, Arrow. “Can we please?” he asked, turning his face to her.

“Wait. You watch Arrow?” Clarke asked, growing in excitement quickly. If he hadn’t been cool before, he would be now. _Anyone_ who liked CW shows earned the highest level of respect in her book.

“Um, if by watch you mean binge and re-watch constantly, then yes.”

Grinning widely now, Clarke turned her head to rant about her favorite moments, but the words she had brought to her lips died there. Somehow, she had forgotten they were sitting close together. _Very_ close together. In fact, their noses were very nearly touching.

She wondered absently if his breath would taste like marshmallows. Maybe she’d find out, once she remembered to breathe.

Bellamy swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing at his throat. “So...Arrow then.”

“Yes. Arrow.” She blinked, tried to think of anything except the space between them. Three inches apart? Two? _Doesn’t matter,_ she hissed at herself, silently cursing his stupid chocolate eyes and curly hair. _Come on, Clarke, LOOK AWAY!_

Finally, she did, but not without feeling like some connection was being stretched between the two of them, a constant back-and-forth of energy that was only assisted by his eyes very obviously still focused on her. “Where do you think we should start?” she asked. “Just at the pilot?”

“Nah, season two. I want a little more Olicity if we’re going to binge.”

“You like Olicity?” Clarke asked, mildly amused.

“Of course I do. Underdogs from the start, lots of so-called platonic glances and touches, sweet and intense talks, a slow but undeniable growth of trust, protectiveness, and love between each other...what’s not to like?”

She frowned. “I was torn on them until partway into season three; there were just so many people Oliver and Felicity seemed to connect with. How could you be so sure so fast?”

He inclined his head to her again—not as close as before, not quite close enough, but close. “I just know. Are you sure on them now, Princess?”

She turned to him with head bent, smiled a little, and nodded. “Yeah. I am very sure.”

“All right then.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Let’s start.”

“Let the mindless bingeing begin,” Clarke agreed, unable to stop smiling, and started the show.

-

A long while later, Clarke realized she didn’t hear lightning or thunder anymore, and the comforting tapping of rain had ceased. The storm had stopped, and that meant it was probably time for Bellamy to go home, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to mention it. _After this episode,_ she thought, but she knew she would just find another excuse after that. As weird as it was to want a near-stranger to hang around her house doing nothing more than binge-watching TV with his shoulder against hers, she wanted it. She wanted to laugh at him when he mildly fangirled over an Olicity moment, and flinch against him when something jumped out on the screen, and pretend not to notice when their fingers touched on the laptop keyboard.

Despite the long hours, neither one fell asleep, though they did a little bit of nodding off. The first time Clarke opened her eyes to realize she had snuggled into Bellamy’s side with her head against his shoulder, she nearly jumped right to her feet, but after four more times of the same thing – her body was apparently way more tired than her mind – she decided to stop caring. After all, Bellamy had nodded off plenty, too, with his head falling on top of hers half the time.

At one point, though, Bellamy sighed dejectedly and said, “So, Princess.”

“Hey, what’d I say about calling me a princess?” she said, nudging his shoulder, but she didn’t actually mind; in fact, the name had begun to grow on her, probably because of the way he said it—not derogatorily, not sarcastic, but soft, like he actually believed she was royalty.

“Oh, you know you love it admit it,” he said, grinning, then his face abruptly went back to the sullen expression he’d worn moments before. “You might want to look outside.”

She raised an eyebrow and looked outside, only to feel her whole face widen with surprise. The sun was up—not rising, not inching through, but up. Completely. She must not have noticed because they left the light on when they started watching. Mentally she did the math—he’d first arrived at her door at maybe seven o’clock at night, when the sun was in the middle of its descent, and now it was maybe...eight am? That meant he’d been at her house, hanging out with her, for _thirteen hours._

There were a lot of reactions Clarke had to that little fact, but the first thing that came out of her mouth was, “But I don’t even feel tired anymore.”

“Me either,” Bellamy said slowly. The way he said it made her feel sad, somehow. He sighed again. “I should probably head out; the storm’s cleared and I’m sure we both have something we’re supposed to do on a Wednesday morning.”

She leaned her head against the back of the wall. “Yeah, you probably should.” Then she turned her head to him a little, smirking. “Unless you’d like to watch me paint.”

“Lovely offer, but I must decline, Princess,” he said, standing. Her side abruptly felt absent and cold, and she found she wasn’t particularly happy with the current space of a few feet between them.

She stood. “I’ll show you out. It’s not like I have far to walk, since you’re just across the hall.”

“Sounds good, Princess,” he said, and gestured to the door.

They left their (considerable) mess as it was, they left the apartment – Clarke wasn’t sure her feet had ever dragged so much in her life – and walked down to Bellamy’s. At the door, however, both of them stalled, unsure when and how to say goodbye after the considerable experience they’d just gone through together. Bellamy looked down and kicked at the ground with his feet, just as he had done when he first arrived, and Clarke rocked back and forth on her heels slightly, begging her brain to think of something, _anything,_ to say to him. But nothing came out, and the silence extended.

“Thank you,” Bellamy said quietly after a minute longer. “For letting me come inside.”

“Yeah, of course,” Clarke said. Though she’d been so unsure about it at first, now the idea of making Bellamy leave and spending the rest of her night painting alone seemed absurd. “I had fun.”

“So did I.”

“Are you feeling better about thunder storms then?” she grinned.

He smirked. “Yeah. In fact, I can’t wait for the next one.”

Clarke blushed and found herself mumbling, “Neither can I.”

For a moment Bellamy grinned widely at her, but then he shuffled slightly, seeming uncomfortable or nervous, or something. “Can I grab a hug?”

She didn’t even bother replying before slipping her arms around his neck, gripping his shoulder blades tightly. He reciprocated, securing her body tightly inside his arms. It was the sort of hug that melted Clarke’s insides, and she wanted to do anything except let go.

“Clarke,” Bellamy murmured, soft and low, and she actually shivered. No matter how much she liked his new nickname for her, the way he said her real name was something else entirely.

“Bellamy,” she replied quietly, settling her face into the crook of his neck.

At last, he loosened his grip on her, but it still took Clarke a long few seconds before she had the strength to disengage. When she did, her eyes found Bellamy’s immediately, and they spent the next few moments just gazing at each other. Clarke expected it to be awkward, but somehow it wasn’t, because she got the idea Bellamy was just as content to look at her as she was to look at him.

Bellamy’s expression changed just slightly as he watched her, and he leaned forward, his hand touching her arm. Clarke froze, completely unsure what he was doing and how she would react, when his lips pressed against her cheek. Her face immediately enflamed and before she had the chance to do even think of a good reaction, he pulled back.

“Um—” Clarke said, completely bewildered and now much less willing to let him walk inside his apartment.

“Thanks again,” Bellamy said, looking highly amused. “See you soon, all right?” He squeezed her arm and, without another word, walked inside.

“See you soon,” Clarke echoed, the grin on her face now apparently permanent. As she turned to go back to her own apartment, she inwardly prayed for the next day to have a 100% chance of thunderstorms. Or, in other words, 100% chance of Bellamy Blake.

-

As soon as the sky went gray, Clarke was waiting at her door expectantly. She’d seen in the newscast earlier there was a high chance of rain and lightning, and according to the calendar she’d hung shamelessly on the wall in her bedroom, the chance of Bellamy Blake (aka the likelihood of Bellamy being able to hang out) was 98%. It was, really, her favorite kind of day—dull and gloomy, with a nice mix of tall, dark, and handsome thrown in.

Once she heard the telltale sound of running down the hallway, she threw open the door just in time for Bellamy to slide in front of her apartment, out of breath and grinning. “I heard there was going to be lightning storms later and I got a little prematurely nervous. Mind if I come in?”

She rolled her eyes, but she was, of course, grinning, too. “You dolt,” she said, and wrapped her arms around him. He hugged her back for a long time, and she felt that thing inside her again, that connection drawn between them. It seemed particularly powerful today, but that was probably just from Clarke’s over-abundance of excitement.

He pulled back but kept his arms on her upper arms. “Got anything interesting planned to stall my terrible fear?”

“You know, sometimes I think you just made that fear up, Bellamy Blake,” she said, raising an eyebrow and smirking. “And the fear of a mouse in your apartment, and the people at a party your sister arranged, and playing one-on-one basketball against Lincoln....”

He shrugged, feigning innocence. “I guess you’ll never know,” he grinned, and they walked inside.

The door closed behind him, and Clarke felt awkward, but not because he was in her house – it was practically his house, too, with all the time he spent here – but because of the constant thoughts churning in the back of her head. _You said today would be the day...you kept saying this would finally be the time when you packed up enough courage....come on, Clarke, get a move on, you promised yourself this months and months ago and you still haven’t done it...._

She tried to flush the thoughts out of her system, but they clung to her skin like tree sap. The truth was, ever since Bellamy had – rather infuriatingly – kissed her cheek and disappeared into his apartment, she’d wanted to get him back for it. And by getting him back, she meant kissing him, this time for real. Every time he showed up at her door with his crinkly smile and soft eyes and endless supply of sweetness, the need to do this became stronger and stronger, but she had yet to become brave enough to initiate anything. Yeah, they had shared a few goodbye kisses on the cheeks, and a couple comforting forehead kisses, but other than that...nothing.

“You finished your last painting a few days ago, right?” Bellamy asked. “Mind if I look at it?”

She cringed immediately. This most recent painting had been kept more of a secret from Bellamy, and though she’d occasionally mentioned how far she was into it, she hadn’t let him see it for a number of reasons. “Um...I don’t know, Bellamy.”

“Aw, come on,” he complained, nudging her shoulder with his arm and furrowing his brows in the best display of puppy eyes she had ever seen, curse his soul. “You haven’t let me see it _once,_ and I don’t even know what it is, either.”

“That’s sort of the point of a secret painting, Bellamy,” Clarke sighed. “It’s secret.”

“Why’s this one secret, though? You’ve never hidden a painting from me before,” he whined.

Clarke fell silent at that, because explaining _why_ she wanted to keep it a secret would just reveal what she was trying to hide. “Bellamy, just...just trust me on this one, okay? Just this once?”

“I trust you all the time,” he said, growing serious and putting a hand on her arm. His eyes had gained that thing, that softness, like his heart was beating through his eyes. “I just don’t know why you don’t seem to trust me.”

“I _do_ trust you, Bellamy,” Clarke said softly, holding his gaze.

“I’m not going to judge whatever you painted,” he insisted, “if you’re worried about that. Your paintings always look beautiful to me.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” she said.

“Then let me see it. I won’t make any comments, won’t say anything out of place, and if you want I can pretend I never saw it.” He leaned closer. “We promised each other we would be more open, Clarke. The both of us.”

She bit her lip uncertainly. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Bellamy to compliment her or assure her she was good at art; of course she trusted him with that, she trusted him with just about everything. But this painting...this wasn’t some sparkling lake or a faceless girl in the wind. This painting was from somewhere deep inside of Clarke, a piece of her soul, and she wasn’t sure what it would be like to hand that off to someone—anyone. Even Bellamy Blake.

Finally, though, she made her decision. “All right, you can see.”

His face lit up, a combination of excitement, relief, and concern. “Are you sure? I don’t want to push you too far.”

“It’s fine,” she said quietly. “You of all people deserve to see it. But...just let me explain first, okay? Before you say anything about it.”

Bellamy squeezed her arm and leaned down until his lips touched her forehead. Clarke savored the moment, letting her eyes flutter closed. “Thank you,” he murmured against her skin.

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “Now let’s see that painting.”

They went into Clarke’s second bedroom, where a loveseat had now been placed for more comfortable TV binging, and also where all her paintings were stored. This particular painting had been hidden behind a lot of other things inside the closet, which Bellamy had been banned from peeking in. She made Bellamy stand on the opposite side of the room with his hands over his eyes and facing the wall while she got it out, wanting it to be a good reveal.

Retrieving the easel from the living room, she set the beloved painting on it and told Bellamy he was allowed to turn around. When he caught sight of the picture, his eyes widened and his lips parted in awe. “Clarke....” he murmured, seeming at a loss of words.

She stood beside him so she could view the picture, too, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. What she had painted was a quiet, mundane scene, with three figures sitting in an open field having a picnic, their eyes bright and their mouths spread in wide smiles. The special part came from the identity of these three people—in the middle, Clarke; to her right, her father, who had passed away several years earlier; and on the left, Bellamy himself.

Clarke felt tense everywhere, thoughts of every shape and color dotting her mind, and looked up. “You can speak now,” she said, very quietly.

“But I don’t even know what to say,” he said, tightening the arm around her.

“Do you like it?”

“Like it?” He looked down at her incredulously. “Are you kidding? I’m more concerned about if I deserve the honor of being in that painting. That’s your dad, isn’t it?”

She nodded.

“Man, Clarke, that’s...that might genuinely be the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Don’t tell Octavia I said that.” Clarke laughed a little at that, and he continued. “What made you paint this?”

She leaned against him a little, wanting the support. “I don’t know, really. At first I was just missing my dad and I decided to draw us having a picnic like we used to do, but as I was sketching it out it felt wrong, somehow. Like someone was missing.” She glanced up at him for just a split second. “Then I realized I couldn’t simply paint something like this without including _both_ don’t dance, not that I can’t. And I don’t do that fast stuff well, anyway.”

She mockingly gasped. “That is despicable!”

He shrugged playfully. “I am a man of many talents, and twisting the truth is one of them.” Extending a hand in a gentlemanly gesture, he added, “All right, come on. Time to learn.”

She took the hand and he pulled her to him. Those hands remained clasped and extended, and he put her other hand on her shoulder before settling his on her waist. It fit nicely there, although Clarke was pretty sure she’d think that no matter what size his hand was. If it was Bellamy’s hand, it fit.

“All right, now we’re going to start simple,” Bellamy said, adopting his teacher voice. “Just move a little back and forth, nice and easy, like you’re swaying.” Once they’d done this, he improved it, doing a small box and then a waltz. The song had moved on to something lively by then, but they both ignored it.

He attempted to spin her in the middle of a turn, but being a klutz she moved too awkwardly and it failed. “Sorry, sorry,” she muttered, feeling annoyed. She’d been able to do it before.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll walk you through it, and then you’ll be able to do it for real.” He slowly spun her in a circle, showing her how she should move her hand and body and how to reform the normal position properly. “There, see? You’ve got it.”

She wasn’t so sure, but a few moments later he tried it again and this time it worked fine, spurring a smile on her face. Bellamy Blake really was too good for this world sometimes.

At last, they got too tired and warm to keep going, and they collapsed on the couch. “Who knew stepping from side to side would be so exhausting?” Clarke groaned, leaning her head on the back of the couch dramatically.

“I did, actually,” Bellamy said, and she threw a pillow at him.

With fatigue brought hunger, so they decided to cook something. Unlike many of their hangouts – dates – whatever they were – where they just ate junk, they both agreed to eat real food. In this case, mac and cheese and salad. Bellamy wasn’t much of a cook, even with mac and cheese, so Clarke put him on putting vegetables, warning him to be careful since he wielded the largest knife she had.

It also turned out Bellamy was really slow—by the time she was mixing in the cheese, he hadn’t even finished cutting lettuce. “Bellamy, for goodness sake,” she chided, coming over. “Chop it like this.” She put her hand over his and showed the chopping motion. “Okay?”

“Um...yeah, okay,” he said, but he seemed a little more distracted after that.

Clarke was just scooping the mac-and-cheese into a large bowl to put on the table when she heard a quick, sharp cry of pain. Her hands reflexively dropped the items in her hand and the pot dropped to the floor with a loud clang, sending half the bowl of macaroni everywhere. “Bellamy?” she asked, her natural worry over him plus nursing instincts kicking in fiercely. “What happened?”

He was clutching his hand; red stained the vegetables on the cutting board, making them more colorful in a gruesome way. “The mac and cheese,” he said sadly, seeming completely unaware of her question even though she knew he heard it. “I made you drop it.”

“Bellamy,” she repeated, sidestepping the fallen pot and coming close, reaching for his hand. _“What is it?”_

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” Bellamy protested, but she knew him better than that. Before he could pull away, she grabbed his hands tightly and pulled his fingers away from his hidden hand. There she saw a rather nasty gash on one of his fingers, presumably from the knife.

She winced at the wound. Guilt burrowed into her – she had, after all, given him a large knife and then clearly distracted him – but she moved it aside for a time after he was addressed. “I hope you’re not afraid of blood,” she said at last.

Bellamy managed a small laugh. “No, that one is not on the list. But Clarke, seriously, I’m fine. I’ll just run it under water for a few seconds and I’m sure it’ll be fine. At most I’ll need a Band-Aid.”

“Oh, no, no, no, mister,” Clarke chided, gripping his hand gently but in a way that clearly said he was not allowed to move away. “I am cleaning you up properly.”

And she did just that, despite his irritable whining. It didn’t take long and it would heal much better and faster, so she wasn’t sure why he was complaining. Some of those societal ego complexes coming into play, she supposed. Once she finished, she rubbed over his hand for a moment or two, then said with a grin, “Are you feeling better now, you big baby?”

Bellamy didn’t reply, and she realized his expression had gone rather soft and vulnerable, like he was pondering something. “What is it?” she asked, quieter.

“Clarke....” He trailed off, his eyes pointedly looking down, then cleared his throat and grew his gaze to hers. “Are you and I...a thing?”

Her jaw actually dropped. “A...a thing?”

“Like, you know.” He blushed. “In a relationship. Boyfriend and girlfriend. A thing.”

There were several moments of silence where Clarke tried to figure out how to answer without revealing she had no idea if they were or not. Finally, she spluttered, “Do you want us to be a thing?”

He was ready for her. “Do you?”

“Well...I mean.” She cleared her throat, realized she was still holding his hand in hers, and drew away awkwardly to play with her hair in thought. “You’re so nice to be around, and I know you better than anyone, and I don’t know anyone else as close to me as you are, so you’re probably the most _likely_ person for me to date....”

“Clarke,” Bellamy said. He was smiling a little. It was infuriating, but in a good way. “You’re rambling.”

“I know that,” Clarke half-snapped, frustrated. Why couldn’t she just say it? She’d been wanting to for weeks now—months, even.

“Then stop. Just say yes or no. Yes, you want to date me, for real; no, you don’t. That simple.”

“Yes,” Clarke burst out, but it sounded too quick, too spur-of-the-moment, which wasn’t how she felt. “Yes,” she repeated, slower and softer. “I would like to date you for real.”

His smile spread across his face, a crinkly, slightly toothy smile. “Then I think we’re on the same page.”

A few moments passed where they just stood there, grinning, unsure what they were supposed to do now—continue talking as if nothing happened? Hug? Kiss? Jump up and down?

_Come on, Clarke, today’s the day...._

As the thought tickled her mind, Clarke smiled even wider and murmured, “Finally, a good opening.”

“For what?” Bellamy asked, but by then her lips were on his.

He softened under her immediately, and his uninjured hand went to her shoulder. She wound her fingers into his soft curls, holding him close to her, and smiled against his mouth. Now that she was kissing him, she was very unsure she would ever let him more than a foot away from her again.

The doorbell rang.

They ignored it for about a second before it rang again, repeatedly, and then, slowly, they drew apart.

“Who is it?” Clarke called out. Her voice half-caught in her throat.

“It’s Octavia,” the voice called. “Is Bellamy in there?”

“Go away,” Bellamy said, his eyes still on Clarke.

“Look,” Octavia huffed, “apparently when you left the apartment you locked all our keys in there, and I didn’t bring one with me when I left because you were _supposed_ to stay there to let me in, which means I have to go get someone to break in. So don’t try getting into the apartment, all right? Bye.”

As she walked away, thunder clapped loudly outside, and they realized it was raining.

Bellamy leaned closer to Clarke and smiled. “So I guess I need to stay for a little longer.”

“I guess you do,” she agreed, and kissed him again.


End file.
